The night air reeked of blood.

  Phantom moved through the abandoned district, his boots silent against the cobblestone. He had left a trail of corpses behind him, each a warning to the Red Jackal. And now, the warlord had answered.

  A dozen enforcers stood in the narrow alley ahead, blades drawn, eyes cold. Behind them, a massive figure loomed—one of the Jackal’s personal executioners, clad in iron-plated armor, wielding a greatsword stained with old blood.

  Phantom smiled beneath his mask. “That all?”

  The enforcers charged.

  Phantom sprang forward, blades flashing in the moonlight. The first man lunged; Phantom sidestepped and plunged his dagger into the enforcer’s neck, twisting as he yanked it free. Blood sprayed, painting the stone red.

  Another attacker swung a mace. Phantom ducked, the heavy weapon smashing into the wall. Before the enforcer could recover, Phantom drove his sword through the man’s gut, kicking him off the blade as he turned to meet the next.

  A slash grazed Phantom’s shoulder, but pain only fueled him. He seized the attacker’s wrist, snapped it with a sickening crack, and slammed his knee into the man’s face. Bone shattered, teeth flew, and the enforcer crumpled.

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  The alley became a slaughterhouse.

  Phantom’s blade danced through flesh, carving through armor and bone alike. A severed hand hit the ground. A head rolled, eyes still wide in terror. He was relentless, a storm of steel and shadow.

  And then the executioner moved.

  With terrifying speed for a man of his size, the armored brute swung his greatsword. Phantom barely leapt back in time, the massive blade carving a deep gouge in the stone. The force of the swing sent a shockwave through the air.

  Phantom grinned. “Not bad.”

  The executioner snarled and lunged again. Phantom ducked under the horizontal slash and slashed at the brute’s knee, but his sword barely cut through the thick armor. The executioner retaliated with a backhand swing—Phantom twisted, feeling the wind as the blade missed his throat by an inch.

  No time for mistakes.

  Phantom feinted left, then rolled right, slipping behind the executioner. With a flick of his wrist, he flung two daggers at the exposed joints of the brute’s armor. One embedded in the armpit, the other in the back of the knee.

  The executioner roared in pain, staggering forward.

  Phantom was already in motion. He leapt onto the brute’s back, grabbing hold of his helmet and wrenching it back. With brutal precision, Phantom drove his dagger into the executioner’s exposed throat and ripped it across.

  A fountain of blood erupted.

  The giant fell to his knees, gurgling, choking, drowning in his own lifeblood. Phantom stepped back as the executioner collapsed with a heavy thud, the last breath rattling from his lips.

  Silence.

  Phantom stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping from his blades. His eyes turned toward the darkness beyond the alley.

  He knew the Red Jackal was watching.

  Phantom lifted his dagger and pointed it toward the unseen warlord.

  “Come and face me.”

  The war had begun.